All Done With Mirrors, take 2: More than the whole world
by Michael Sharkey
Summary: While hunting a fugitive earl at his manor home, agent Tara King enters an unusual room... and another reality. An erotic adventure, set in the mid-1970s. "The past is never dead. It's not even past." FINAL UPDATE: Chapter ten AND epilogue added Nov 1, 2017. [Rated M for adult themes]
1. Our agents of the fairer sex

**CHAPTER 1: "That applies, as well, to our agents of the fairer sex."**

"Indeed, it's a striking turn of events," said John Steed on the line, as he tossed a dash of vodka into his Kenya coffee, in lieu of breakfast. "After a year on the run, it appears our man has come back to the scene of his crime... Yes, just like one of Dame Agatha's novels. A pity she didn't quite live to see it. And for the perfect final chapter," he remarked, as he capped the Stoli, "it's just when we happen to be nearby. So we can close the case personally." He gave his nourishing repast a swirl, and leaned back with satisfaction. "It would seem the chap's famous luck has run out at last."

Tara King strolled her Chelsea flat, with her Art Deco phone in one hand, and the receiver in the other. She said nothing, for a long moment. "Are you still there?" Steed inquired. His voice bespoke a slightly greater concern than a simple pause would call for. "His alleged crime," she finally averred, with a lowered tone. This was technically correct, of course. No trial yet, and he had vowed his innocence before vanishing. But my God, Steed thought... given the verdict at the inquest... how could she fail to...?

"I'm frankly relieved," she then observed, sparing Steed the need to follow up. "In fact, I've had an uncanny sense, the past few weeks, that we somehow went from being the hunters, to the hunted. Had you noticed it?"

"Well, frankly, no. At least I've seen no evidence, that I'm aware of. However," he went on, leaning forward now, "I would never disregard your intuition. We know his Lordship has an eye for the ladies." He added, a touch more seriously, "...perhaps a special eye for the one on his trail."

"I hardly think so," Tara quickly scoffed. Yet, although she had spoken of it to no one, that very thought had in fact occurred to her. As she had walked the misty streets of London, or gazed from her bay windows at night, she would reflect, _He's out there somewhere._ Out there watching, and planning... what?

"In any event," Steed concluded, on a cheerier note, "the matter should be resolved before we lay our heads to our pillows tonight. So I will meet you at Mother's, 'round eleven, for the briefing." He tucked his own handset into its cradle, with a smile, and set the instrument aside. It was always a pleasure to touch base with his charming partner, and be the bearer of good news. And he keenly relished the capture of the elusive pimpernel, whom the press had so glamourized.

In fact, he was walking right into their hands. Not such a cunning character after all, Steed mused, with a quiet chortle. Coming back just when... – and he suddenly paused, with a glance back at the phone. _Just when we happen to be nearby... so we can close the case personally._

* * *

"Her Majesty's Secret Service can be a harsh mistress!" declared Mother, sharing the wisdom of his years. Steed sipped his tea, with a tolerant air. Tara looked a bit bewildered. Her portly superior took note, and added, "That applies, as well, to our agents of the fairer sex."

"But, I've never had a mistress," she replied, ingenuously. "Although I have been..." – Steed raised an eyebrow. Then she finished, "...harsh at times." She took another sip of her own tea, and set the cup on the charger held by the tall, silent figure to her right.

"Thank you, Rhonda," said Mother to his able wheelman, bodyguard, and Girl Friday (who could, in fact, knock any girl or bloke into next Wednesday). With no visible acknowledgment, she accepted the other two cups, and withdrew to other duties.

Mother clapped his hands down onto his thighs. "Now back to the case, and back to the chase."

"The _case_ of the _chase!"_ Steed quipped. And Mother glowered on cue.

"Yes, quite. As you know, our sources tell us our quarry returned to ground this past evening."

"Weary of running, perhaps?" Tara suggested, with a more elegiac tone. "Wishing for a final night at home, before Dartmoor?"

Steed's hand, as he was snugging his umbrella stay, stilled for a moment.

"It's difficult to say," Mother opined, oblivious to any untoward note. "He is a mercurial fellow. A high stakes gambler, in more ways than one. Be that as it may, Miss King, you will proceed to the estate, whilst Steed liaises with the local authorities to make the pinch." Mother's speech often veered from stuffy formality to dime-novel dramatics.

Steed massaged the gnarl of his chair arm for several seconds. Then he interjected, "Quite honestly, Mother, I'm no good at handling officials. Tara would do much better. I can cool my heels outside the gate, and wait until she and the law arrive." He could sense Tara's glance, and avoided her eye.

"Nonsense. We need your ministerial status at the station, to ensure the Chief Constable's full cooperation. Tara will take up Surveillance Point Alpha. We have pulled all our other people back, so as not to risk alerting the target. And with any luck, within twenty-four hours, we shall be toasting another victory for justice and the Crown."

Tara picked up the dossier from the end table, and looked once again at the rogue aristocrat's photograph.

"Such a handsome face," she observed, with a soft catch in her voice. It was not the first time she had noticed.

At the words, Steed stole his own glance at his partner.

"Indeed," Mother remarked briskly. "Such a pity he went over to the Dark Side."

Tara touched the photo with her fingertips. What is it like, she sometimes wondered... on the Dark Side?

* * *

 **Coming next...**

 **CHAPTER TWO: "Surrender now, and it will go easier for you."**


	2. Surrender now, and it will go easier

**CHAPTER 2: "Surrender now, and it will go easier for you."**

An hour later she was exiting a call box, beside a BP station in Swingingdale. _Thirty minutes,_ she reflected, tapping her nails on the front wing – and decided her plan would still work.

She took the layover to top her petrol, and toweled off the roadster's windscreen and quarter glass. On the spur of the moment, she had circled home after the briefing, and dropped off her Lotus. Then she untarped and rolled out the AC 428, for the first time in three years. Lately she'd been sensing a need in her life to get back to beginnings – and the dark scarlet _gran turismo_ had been the first car of her career. In fact, a professional gift from Steed (when he opted to keep his Bentley). So garaged or not, she planned to never part with it. Next stop: Bingham Manor.

 _"Her Majesty's Secret Service can be a harsh mistress..."_

Tara reflected on Mother's adage, as she crept along the dimly lit corridor, at the heart of the stately, shuttered mansion. The official plan, of course, was to wait outside the gate, and enter with Steed and the authorities. But after months of pursuit, and the end in sight, Tara felt a powerful urge to meet the mysterious fugitive alone, if only for a final minute.

 _It would be her first, and last, chance. She couldn't fathom her reasons, exactly – nor what she would say, or do, or even what she expected. But something in her heart and mind impelled her to take the risk. She wanted to confront him, not in shackles, amid a crowd of detectives – but free, and the two of them alone together. Face to face. Pursuer to prey. Woman to..._

She stopped short, at the creak of... a footstep? A hinge? Probably just an old house, flexing its joints. In any case, there was little to fear. She had often pummeled multiple assailants, in short order, with her jujitsu and karate and the occasional item of home decor. Of course, sometimes these bouts went awry, and she would fall into their clutches instead. (She was prone to chloroform, it seemed.) It was then she would find herself tied up in chairs, or strapped to a mad scientist's lab table, or even bound to a Chinese torture rack. In fact, Steed had once remarked after yet another rescue, "I do wonder if you're beginning to enjoy these situations." It was only a jest, of course. But as he walked away, she had glanced back at where she had lain – and gently touched her throat.

The passageways were more eccentric than she remembered from the architect draughts she'd seen. Within minutes, she was quite lost. Even so, she had a sense that this was exactly the way she would find her quarry, if she ever would at all. He might, she guessed, be lost himself; in another realm or dimension, even. Somewhere in the house, or far beyond... or as near as her next breath. And to find him, she would have to leave behind her logic, and rules, and remembered floor plans – and follow her instincts. Words came to her, from an American theatre show. _We're two lost souls... on the highway of life._ The lyric ran through her mind, until, as she walked through the stillness, she softly gave voice, "...but ain't it just great... ain't it just grand? We've got —"

She broke off, as she rounded an odd-angled corner. And there she found herself at an unfinished oak door, recessed into the wall. From her study of the case, she knew it led to the basement... where it had happened.

She touched the bare wood, as conflicting emotions coursed through her. What was down those steps? Was the truth there? Was nothing? She looked at the wrought iron latch, awaiting her hand. All this time... the mystery, the wondering. She had to find out. _The chance was now._ And she reached down.

Then something else caught her attention. From further ahead in the darkness, she could swear a voice... a woman's voice, a familiar voice... _had spoken her name._

She dismissed the notion, and turned back to the basement door. No time to chase fancies. She needed to know what happened that night. This moment might never come again. She steeled herself, and grasped the fateful handle. _This is it._ And she chucked it downward.

Then came the mysterious call again; more clearly this time. " _Tara. Tara King..."_ And now she noticed a crack of light beneath another door at the far end of the passage. That wasn't there before – was it? _Oh, it must have been._ She reminded herself that sometimes, in low light, a blind spot will hide what you're looking straight at _. "_ _Come this way..."_ said the voice, drifting down the hallway. It wavered a bit, but still sounded familiar. She was sure she knew who it was, yet couldn't quite peg it. She looked back at her hand on the down-turned handle, and hesitated. _"This way, Tara,"_ the voice repeated. It felt more personal now; more coaxing. Like rippling fingers, summoning her _. "Come this way... This is what you want."_

She paid heed this time, and went onward, towards the second door. Walking by feel and hearing, more than by sight. As one might in a dream. The light under the door ahead seemed to change, as she neared it. Becoming brighter; more golden. As she moved along, she pondered the voice that had preceded her. It was clearly not the earl's. Was it a guiding angel from Heaven? Might it even be, perhaps, the ghost of Miss Riv–?

At the threshold, she drew a breath; and said a quick prayer, for God to bring good from whatever would happen. Then she turned down the handle, gave a push, and stood back as it swung open.

She heard nothing. Saw no movement. And observed what appeared to be a large, high-ceiling boudoir. The lighting was soft and subdued. But she could see the room was lushly furnished, in a strange mix of periods; with perhaps an Edwardian emphasis. There were velvet couches and settees, and hanging tapestries. Rakish paintings adorned the walls. On a mantle she noticed a French bracket clock, strikingly similar to a collector's item of her own. And partly visible to the right, was a gorgeous canopy bed.

She carefully stepped inside – and as she crossed the threshold, the scene seemed to brighten, into clarity. As if she had stepped through a veil, into another world. She looked about, from wall to wall, and floor to ceiling. Even amid her apprehension, she caught her breath at the spacious, richly appointed interior. It recalled the Arabian Nights seraglios she had imagined, in her mind's eye, while reading forbidden romances in her girlhood.

As she took it in, by the light of torche lamps and a Baccarat chandelier, she felt an odd stirring. Like a maestro was drawing his bow across one of her deepest heartstrings. The sensation grew stronger at each detail, each moment, as 'round she looked. Her visual survey ended on the large, plush, satin-clad bed. Its ornately carved posts shone with the scarlet of Madagascar rosewood, her lifelong favourite; framing lace-lined draperies, and pillows cased in thick silk. The matching sheets were turned down, almost invitingly. She took two steps nearer. Her breathing deepened a bit as she stared at its luxuriance. She was strangely drawn by it. Beckoned. Even... aroused.

 _She had taken lovers, of course, in the years since moving to London. But always they disappointed. The affairs never gratified her secret yearning... her dreams of the wanton embrace with her back to the Earth, and the handsome, powerful, overwhelming victor above her, who desired her more than the whole world. So at present, she walked the city alone._

She shook off the reverie, as her academy training kicked in. This was no time for silly musing, she chided herself. Richard John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan, was still at large.

"Your Lordship!" she announced. "The police are on their way. It's hopeless! Surrender now, and it will go easier for you." She looked about the capacious room. There was no answer. Only the characteristic _click-a-tick, click-a-tick_ of the bracket clock in the silence. She continued – her voice a touch more husky than she wished, "Lord Lucan... this is Tara King. I – I think you know me. I promise I will stand with you at the trial, and testify that you came forth peaceably." Still no response.

She stepped to the centre of the room, and stood. Watching, and listening. Then, on an impulse, she said more gently, "Richard...?" At this, a sound behind her made her turn quickly. But no, there was nothing to see. And nothing more was heard. So she reined in her nerves, and began a professional sweep of the room; by the book. Sweep, and secure. Checking every wardrobe and wall curtain, and possible concealment.

As she searched, she noticed an exotic scent in the air, which she traced to a bouquet of orchids in a fluted Moroccan vase. She was something of an expert on tropical flowers, and their cultivation in temperate climes. At a conference in Washington, she had even traded (botanical) secrets with fellow orchid fancier, James Jesus Angleton. But she could not recognize this species. And yet, as she nestled the blooms in her fingers, and studied them, something started to click _._ It was on the brink of her memory. The vivid colour... the outsized stamens and pistils... the unique curvature of the petals, almost like spirals _. She had seen these flowers someplace before_. But she couldn't, quite, remember where.

She set the matter aside, and continued her reconnoiter – though now more slowly, and thoughtfully. Her senses were wary. Nothing like this room had appeared anywhere in Lord Lucan's official file. Not even in his unofficial "black ops" file (which Tara had skimmed _very_ unofficially... while a records clerk was out seeking, for her, a packet of Dunhill Lights)

So in that case, where did it come from? What was it for?

 _Who_ was it for...?

* * *

 **Coming next...**

 **CHAPTER THREE: The hint of the forbidden**


	3. The hint of the forbidden

**CHAPTER 3: The hint of the forbidden**

On the wall opposite the bed was a particularly unnerving portrait. It was a young woman, brunette and well-figured, with an enigmatic smile. And reclined, fully nude. The lack of garb wasn't what disturbed Tara, though. It was the woman's disturbingly familiar features. She'd had the feeling only once before, in her strange adventure as Pandora. _It was like looking into a mirror._

The entire room, the more she examined it, had a strange intimacy. At each turn, she would see something that she... impossibly... seemed to know. Or, in a most peculiar way, _felt_ she knew. A ramskin pelt, with a silver clasp. An onyx lamp. A jeweled dagger, bisecting an oracle saucer. A male silhouette, of noble visage. An orb. They weren't exactly known, but were like things from an ancient dream. A dream – of hers.

In fact, there was something primal, even mythic, about the whole setting. Like after a lifetime of wandering, she was home at last. Her most ancestral, truest home, that she had always known without even knowing. Somewhere in time and space, she had held that dagger; cradled the orb. Had swathed the ramskin about her, against the northern winds. Undone its silver clasp. Known the man.

The words came to her, from her deepest being, _"This is where I'm from..."_

She stood again upon the cliffs. Under the darkling skies; above the wind-tossed _Mare Frisia._ At the head of the path from her rendezvous. Alone... yet not alone. The flush on her bosom gone; her heart steady, and strong.

As the heavens turned, Cassiopeia, who had rashly boasted of her unrivaled beauty, loomed over the far away parapet of the Emperor's wall. Above the roiling waters a new star, trailing the green mist, glimmered near the rising moon. The Otherworld's sure herald of great endings, and beginnings.

The last gleams of twilight caressed the landscape behind her. Ahead she gazed eastward, past the strand, towards the grey horizon. The sea breeze tousling her long, loose hair. Watching the waves crash in the distance. Thinking, feeling... just being alive, in this corner of the Earth, of the universe... as the door slowly swung shut behind her.

She heard the thump, and ran towards it. It was firmly locked. Had it been accidental, or a trap? _Damn it._ She knocked a fist on the hardwood, and cursed herself for daydreaming. Then she turned, and did a quick review of the perimeter. There was no other door evident, and no windows. So she was trapped, accidentally or not. Yet no other threat was visible. So it seemed best to sit tight, wait for Steed and the police, and to call out when she heard them.

She sighed. So much for that momentous final encounter. Well, it was a rather vain wish, she realized. And she knew the warnings about wishes.

She wrenched the handle one more time – and further wished she still carried that brick. Then she brushed back a lock of her own brunette tresses, and resumed exploring her abode.

 _"My abode..."_ The archaic term had popped into her mind, and touched something within her. Even though it was hardly meet for what was, in point of fact, her temporary cell. Yet minute by minute, she was feeling more like she belonged here. Belonged in the room... with the room. Even, somehow, _to_ the room.

She passed a hand over the luxurious bed, and felt the mysterious attraction again, even more so. A flowing scarlet drape hung from the nearest finial. She ran her hand down its length – and the stirring, from earlier, returned. But this time she didn't shake it off. The bow again drew across the taut string within her. Then the unseen hand drew another, longer stroke, across more strings... and her eyes closed, and she shivered at the complex, tragic, exquisite chord.

She gathered the shimmering cloth into her hands, both hands, and drew it over her face and bare neck. Savouring its cool softness, and smoothness. Her thoughts began drifting afield.

As she nestled the drape to her cheek, she glanced at the nearby orchids, and noticed their stems – which she swore had been splayed in random directions – were now aligned together at one side... and were leaning over the rim of the vase, _towards her._ Their blooms, too, were a deeper hue, and more open than she remembered from a minute ago. She must not have looked closely before, she reasoned.

Then, even as she watched, the blooms opened wider still. Seeming to bend the petals back, and thrust their centres forward. Parting their innermost folds. She let loose of the drapery, and stepped closer, to peer into the largest bloom – and she was struck by its delicate, contoured inner structures. In all her studies, she had never seen an orchid with such richly coloured, intricate recesses. There were layered rims of lattice-like tissues, cupping a slender deep funnel, leading back into the flower's womb. Graced by the finest hairs, and glistening nectar, with micro-streaks of pigment. So sweet, and enticing. It was like... like... and the brash word came to Tara, oddly but tenderly, _"...a pussy. This is its pussy."_

A part of Tara felt she shouldn't peer so closely. Although mere flowers, there was yet a sense of violation. But the hint of the forbidden made the sight all the more tempting. And as she came nearer, the bloom seemed to flex; bending back on itself; thrusting its mons and _venerae_ towards Tara's eyes, like a lure. Tara unconsciously moistened her lips, as the flower spread its folds wider, to show Tara just a little more... and bring her even closer. And closer. At the same moment, a strange desire began to form in her mind. A desire to kiss that incredibly beautiful, sweet, secret mouth. Fully, and deeply. To taste its nectar with the tip of her tongue, and imbibe its essence to the full.

She drew the bloom up to her face. As she stared, the desire became overwhelming. _What would it be like...?_ Her breathing stilled; her eyes closed. She leaned in, and her head instinctively tipped to the right... as she gently opened her own mouth, to meet the flower's. And at the instant her lips touched the smooth, soft _embouchure,_ a mist issued forth from its deepest recesses.

She was taken aback. _What... what amazing flowers,_ she vaguely thought – and the mist welled forth again. Then all the orchids, impossibly, stretched towards her, and wafted another sweet cloud, from a dozen intimate depths at once. Tara felt the fine dew on her cheeks, and her eyes rolled, as she drew in the musky bouquet. It was like the richest, most seductive perfume she'd ever dreamed of. The sensations seemed to ripple through her; to penetrate her with pleasure. Bending her body, bending her mind, towards...

Then she shuddered, and snapped to. _What is happening? What am I supposed to be doing?_

With a deliberate effort, she backed away from the flowers; and gave her head a shake, to clear the fog. She smoothed down her garments, self-consciously. Getting herself back on track. Back to the task at hand. The task of... of...

 _Sweep and secure. That was it. Sweep, and secure._ She patted a hand on her thigh. Enough with this foolishness.

Casting about again, she now saw an ornate, late-Victorian vanity against the opposite wall. Another, even larger vase of orchids was at one side of the vanity, on a marble stand. On the other side, stood a 3-way nest of full-length mirrors. The single large mirror atop the vanity was framed by intricate arcs and curly-cues of rosewood, like the bed. And it seemed to be glistening. In her distracted state, she even imagined it was winking at her. As if tempting her to come closer. That was peculiar, indeed. Tara crossed the room, to examine the phenomenon.

She stood in front of the vanity, and gazed at her reflection. At herself in her plum silk blouse, and wraparound skirt. With a silvered Tara Brooch on her bodice (a whimsical conceit – but also something more). It was a sight she'd seen this morning, and many mornings. Yet this time, perhaps from the lighting, or the lingering effects of the orchids, she was especially taken by it.

 _She loved her many clothes, and fancied this outfit in particular. It was ostensibly styled for daytime; for "the office." But with its teasing neckline, the velvet smooth fabric, and the easy-off titillation of the skirt, it was as distracting as any afterdark ensemble. There was hardly a male she passed, and perhaps more than a few females, who didn't look at the fly hem of that overlap, and dream how easily a hand could peel it off._

At the same time, in the corner of the glass, Tara could see the mysterious painting behind her. Beauteous; rude; so intimately disturbing. As she regarded the reflected portrait, the recumbent woman flexed her body on the couch, and smiled more broadly – then whispered, _"You're getting closer, Tara. This is the way."_ It was the voice from the hallway – and Tara suddenly realized why it had sounded familiar. _It was her own._

She swung a glance over her shoulder. The painted woman was reclined there, as still and enigmatic as ever. In the same casual, unabashed pose. No broader smile; and certainly no means of moving or speaking. But her eyes, which Tara had remembered as vague and askance, now had a glint – and they were looking directly at Tara.

* * *

 **Coming next...**

 **CHAPTER FOUR: "Rules are rules, Major Steed"**


	4. Rules are rules, Major Steed

**CHAPTER 4: "Rules are rules, Major Steed."**

Unsure what to think, Tara turned again to the mirror. The mist from the bedside orchids still lingered on her, and she breathed it in again. From somewhere she heard a distant glissando of a harp. Her vision went double for a moment, splitting into two Tara Kings before her. Then they re-converged. And now a single, sirenic figure gazed back at her. An image of herself more vivid, more alluring, than any she had ever seen. As if the woman in the painting had taken possession of her reflection.

As she looked at the image, slowly up and down, the arousal from before began welling again. Her hands drifted to her hips, in the snug-fitting skirt. She caressed their convex curves on either side, up and down. Then she moved around behind, and caressed there. All the while watching the figure in the mirror, like a sort of dual identity, or second self. As if a tentative lover was plying her... testing her receptiveness. Then she reared slightly backwards, and slowly drew her hands up the concave of her waist. And from there, upwards further, and outward, as her torso flared. Over the smooth blouse, gently crushing the silk as they passed. Gliding up, and towards her bountiful...

She stopped at that point, and blinked twice – becoming aware of what she was doing. What _am_ I doing, she asked herself. She lifted her hands away. But just then the chandelier jingled gently, as if a door somewhere had opened, and stirred the air. She scarcely noticed the sound. However, the jostling caused the light to waver, and the mirror to shimmer accordingly... and somehow made her image all the more lustrous. Flecks of light from the chandelier danced in the figure's dark eyes. And in her own.

 _There was the time, on a previous case, when a microchipped book had caused her to fall instantly, helplessly, in love with next person she set eyes on. She soon recovered – but she never forgot the experience. The total, overwhelming passion. How she completely let go of her will, even her will to live, in her utter devotion to the man (though he was a ruthless enemy agent)_

 _The memory was chilling... yet secretly exciting. To be so carried away; so lost. Sacrificing her whole career, even her life, for love of a scoundrel. Freely giving her heart, and soul, and body, to him. Yearning for his hands on her flesh; for his flesh in hers. Betraying her closest friends, her oath, her country; even herself. Nothing had mattered to her, but doing whatever he wanted – and offering herself, for him to do whatever he wanted with her._

 _The experience awakened something within Tara... deep within... that she hadn't known was there. Something she tried the rest of her life to deny – but could not._

She looked deep within the mirror now, at the figure so familiar and so strange. It was herself, and yet a bewitching, desirable Other. _Yes, touch me. Feel me,_ the image whispered without speaking. _Keep going, Tara. You so want to._ Tara yielded, and placed her hands again on her side. Sliding them higher now, up from her waist, to nestle her large, womanly breasts through the silk blouse. As the shimmer continued, she fondled herself lovingly; never taking her eyes off her reflection. Her mind began veering into odd reflections itself. _What a gorgeous body_ , the errant thought came to her. _What a gorgeous, sensuous body. It could drive Steed out of his mind. It could drive any man mad._

Her hands eased their caressing, and her fingertips tickled the buttons of the blouse. Running up and down the pearly column, as if toying with a flute. Her eyes glittered, even as an impish, devilish smile flickered to the lips of her mirror twin. _Yes,_ came the whisper again, _drive them mad. You know how._ She murmured said "Yes..." and undid the top button; then another. _Drive them mad. It's what you want... it's what they want._ She wasn't sure if the words were her own, or from her image, or both.

Down her fingers moved. Her twin smiled the more. _That's right, Tara. Keep going. Another... another._ She undid the third, revealing more of her smooth skin, and the upper reaches of her breasts and bra. The brooch sparkled hypnotically in the crisscrossing light. _All the way,_ the mirror coaxed. _It's what you always wanted... always dreamed of. To go all the way_. Then the fourth, as Tara's smile widened, at the ever more delectable image. And then parting the last. But with the final undoing, a glimmer of rational thought returned. Causing her hands to pause, as her critical self – Tara King, trained and trusted agent – came back to the fore. _Mad? What am I doing? What's going on here?_ Her fingers drew away. She tried to think; to sort out this strange fancy.

Then the muse Erato, darkest tressed of the Nine Sisters, took the bow into her own expert hand, and stroked it across the most intimate part of her earthly sister. Tara shivered at the vibrato... as Erato smiled, and stroked yet again. _Keep going,_ trilled the mythic seductress. _Your body is so beautiful, and sensual. Don't think. Just feel... just be._ And at the third stroke of the bow, the keenest of all – the very tone itself seemed to arch Tara's back – she grasped the parted bodice, and drew it open. Her arms stretched back, pulling the blouse from her chest, as the silk glided over and off her smooth shoulders. She freed the hem from her beltline, and the garment slid down to her wrists behind her, and dropped. The brooch clicked on the parquet floor. She held the pose, like a ship's figurehead, and looked upon her sumptuous breasts in her scarlet, lace-edged brassiere. Then she gathered them in her hands again, to fondle them anew.

A sly smile appeared. And the mirror, somehow, seemed to read her thoughts. Reflecting them, even as it did her image. _Yes... they're wondrous. So enticing; so full._ Then it seemed to keep whispering, into her mind, _Keep feeling them, Tara. That's right. Keep feeling them..._ And Tara did so, never taking her eyes from the glass. Relishing their curvature... their size... the wonderful sensations quickening in them. _Take off your bra,_ was the next whisper. _Take off your bra, so you can feel them more._

A part of her shied. Although alone, and the door locked from the world, an instinct of modesty flickered. But her hands wouldn't stop their gentle, insidious assault. She could sense the breasts yearning for her direct touch. She massaged them more boldly, to assuage their desire – but only aroused it further. "Feel them more..." she finally repeated, with a catch in her voice. She reached behind her back, with both hands, to the hasp. And unsnapped it. Then she brought her arms around, and crossed the hands to each shoulder. Bundling her chest into a gorgeous, deep cleavage. Never taking her eyes from her reflection.

With her thumbs, she nudged the scarlet straps off, left and right. Then hooked them, and opened her arms downward. With a lithe sway of her torso, the well-filled brassiere fell to her fingertips, and to the floor, where it lay beside the blouse. Tara gazed down at the discarded garments. "Mad..." she said softly, to no one. The ticking of the bracket clock seemed to fade away. She drew erect, and presented her full, unclothed bosom to the glistening mirror.

Steed was livid. "What the devil do you mean that Stanhope has to accompany us?" He paced the Chief Constable's office in frustration. He had told Tara, when she called from the rover phone in her Lotus, that they would set out within 30 minutes. Now this preposterous delay!

The official coolly regarded the irate visitor to his domain. "Rules are rules, Major Steed. Without Stanhope, the scoundrel might walk scot-free in the Assizes, or whatever they're calling it now. And all the Yard's work, not to mention your Ministry's, would be for naught." At Steed's glare, he added, "I am sure your Miss King can hold her own for a short while. Stanhope will be arriving, I dare say, at any moment."

Steed gripped and ungripped his brolly. "I certainly Stan'hope so!" he rejoined. Then he strode to the window, and looked outside.

 _He had sometimes worried about Tara. Never about her professional skills, which had proven themselves far beyond the doubters after Emma left. His worries were of a different hue. Tara had depths... depths of passion, unplumbed, unsatisfied. Things a mere man could barely understand, but ways a wicked man could take her. And during their search for Lord Lucan, Steed had seen her eyes; heard her voice. Perceived her heart beating._

Yet he had to believe she could, indeed, hold her own. _Yes, she can,_ he told himself firmly, as he leaned on his trusty accoutrement. _Tara can handle herself._

* * *

 **Coming next...**

 **CHAPTER FIVE: A chilled coupe of champagne**


	5. A chilled coupe of champagne

**CHAPTER 5 : A chilled coupé of champagne**

Tara had seen the busty "Page 3" models in the tabloids, in their soft-core layouts, and had little comment on these T&A parades. But she secretly envied the women's boldness... and while sipping a second cocktail in her bubble bath, with Soho jazz on the tape deck, she would sometimes imagine herself in the pages. Enticing the men of London, and all the world, with her own incomparable charms. As the fancy took hold, she would finish off her crème and cognac; then chase it with a chilled coupé of Meudon & Heim, the deliciously heady champagne Steed had aboard his home-made rocket. (She never could remember how they got back.) Then she would loll in the tub, and fondle her curves in her warm, soapy hands, while seducing the handsome young photographer with her eyes, and her smile... and herself.

And before the mirror she likewise took her bare breasts into her hands, and watched herself caress them, in a sort of daze. Relishing their fullness, and firmness. Their lovely, smooth softness. Her eyes fluttered, as a sigh, almost a gasp, escaped her lips. Her hips began swaying, as if to secret music. For whatever reason... perhaps a side-effect of the orchids... the erogenous sensations were incredible.

As Tara's breath quickened, she began riffling her fingers over the fiery brown membranes, so rich in feeling. Fluming her fingers upward, then downward, again and again. Stimulating the keenly sensitive skin. The tingling was almost impossible to stand. She simultaneously fought to stop, and couldn't stop. _Keep it up_ , the mirror coaxed. _More... do it more_. Under the rippling massage, the nipples engorged; rising in bas-relief on her breasts, like Crown dollars. Dark and rosy; textured; and erect. As they rose and tightened, they became even more sensitive. Aching with pleasure, from thousands of nerve endings, feeding back into her. Her eyes closed, her breathing quavered, as the nipples grew larger; more erect. Begging for mercy, even as they helplessly flared more and more erotic _frisson_ into Tara.

From a hidden doorway watched a man. A man with an aristocratic bearing, and a glint in his eye. And something in his hand. A thumb dial went upward; another went downward. In the room, the vanity mirror dimmed – and an even brighter, more arresting glisten began in the full-length mirrors next to it. Tara's caresses subsided. She slowly turned towards the other mirrors; and moved into their angled centre, as if to a flame.

Now, as her eyes went from left to right, she could see herself full-circle. Her body, from every angle, head to toe, and from the rear. The rear... her hips, in the tight skirt. The fabric snugging around, and defining – concealing, yet revealing – the comely curves beneath.

Then, perhaps from the same realm as the glissando, a melody began.

It was a flute; then two flutes; with an exotic tremolo, and hints of Ravel's masterwork. But the rhythm was deeper... the tempo, more audacious. As Tara listened, another and a fourth instrument joined, and she again began moving her hips. The music, that music... she couldn't help responding. Her hips swayed up to the left, then the right, then the left. Her arms hung at her side, and her upper body was still. Just her hips rocking, back and forth – back, and forth, and around – to the piquant, sensuous beat. In the multiplex reflections she saw thousands of images; beside herself, beyond herself. From the side, from the front... from the rear. She stared at the swaying, as if entranced by a fascinating, seductive dancer.

But she drew up again, and balked. _No. This shouldn't be happening. Something's wrong!_ Her rational mind fought back. Things weren't adding up. She shut her eyes tightly, and turned her head aside. And as she concentrated, the fog started to clear. Yet even as she began to reawaken, the orchids in the larger vase, beside the vanity, began moving. By themselves. The stems closed into alignment, almost like hands folding in prayer. Then they wheeled slowly around, as the others had... and began arching. Arching towards Tara.

On the edge of her consciousness, an alarm was sounding. _It's the mirrors... it's all done with mirrors! They're taking your mind. Run...run!_ The orchids came nearer. The stems leaning; growing. Stretching towards her, from the side. The pigments in the petals deepened; the stamens and pistils dilated. The fragrance sacs swelled, and presented.

Tara opened her eyes again, and saw herself topless in the glass. She was almost startled at the sight. "What's going on? Why am I...?" The orchid blooms, just beyond the edge of her vision, started to bend open. The sacs stretched; engorged with the potent perfume. Their membranes straining, and thinning... and oriented directly towards Tara. She broke her gaze away from the mirrors, for the first time since approaching the vanity, and looked around the room. At the tender trap closing in.

The peril dawned on her. She had to escape... had to break the door latch somehow. _The chance was now._ On the mantle she saw a tall bronze candlestick, with a marble base. With her trained instincts, the sequence _grasp/smash/flee_ flashed through her mind, in an instant.

She bent down, and took a final second to gather her fallen blouse and bra. A final, fateful second. The blooms quivered, and stretched forth a penultimate centimeter. Pressuring the sacs to the extreme. She couldn't find the brooch, but couldn't wait. She rose from her task, and turned towards the mantle, swinging her face by the flowers for a last tick of time. And the sacs burst.

The cloud of fragrance engulfed her. She faltered, and couldn't help breathing it in. Then another burst, more intense. She tried to fight its effect. But it was so sweet; so seductive. Her eyes closed, and her head rolled in a circle, as a third burst came. Exhausting the flowers, ending their life... but finishing their purpose. _Breathe it in_ , the mirror told her. _It's so wonderful... so delicious. Keep breathing it in..._ And she inhaled again. And again. Her eyes reopened, but gazed into empty space. Her lips parted, as she drew in more of the vapour. A woozy feeling came over her, like she was sinking into a deep, soft feather bed. So blissfully deep, and luxurious. Her mind swirled. Was she going to do something? Going to leave? She couldn't remember. She just knew the fragrance was wonderful... so wonderful. _Drop your clothing,_ the mirror directed. _Drop them... drop them._ Her fingers loosened, and the garments fell. The orchids sagged, dead, over the rim of the vase. The warning voices receded into oblivion.

"That's right, Mother," said Steed on the phone – as the Chief Constable wondered why anyone would be consulting their mum about police business. "We hit a snag. Apparently our friends in Cardiff are staking a last-minute claim... probably attracted by the notoriety. So the Welsh Office is swooping in." He glanced again, towards the window. "Except they aren't swooping very fast. Yes...yes. I realize a rash move could ruin everything."

"I know you are concerned about Tara," said Mother, his voice crackling from whatever eccentric HQ he had moved to now. "As am I. But I am certain, at this very moment, she is ensconced at the checkpoint, watching the manor gate, and is probably quite bored..."

* * *

 **Coming next...**

 **CHAPTER SIX: Satan with an hourglass figure**


	6. Satan with an hourglass figure

**CHAPTER 6: Satan with an hourglass figure**

Tara gazed afresh upon herself in the treble mirrors. Seeing her figure at every angle, slightly canted, in reflections within reflections. As she breathed in still more of the mesmerizing fragrance, she looked downward. Past her bare bosom, at the cast off garments on the stage, just outside the spotlight. From the darkness, beyond the footlights, voices came again. Male voices this time, in the hundreds, and thousands... _the men of London, and all the world._ Cheering, and applauding; calling out her name. Vowing their love. A baton tapped – _click-a-tick, click-a-tick_ – and the music resumed. A slow stride now, at least at first. Then it welled stronger; more rhythmic. The whole audience, the whole world, knew it as Tara King's signature; her anthem. Her hips began swaying in time – as the myriad images dissolved, and parted.

 _Enticing them... with her incomparable charms —_

She stood again... upon the stage of the Palace Internationale. The star attraction. The most celebrated, lavishly paid stripper of all time. Secretly envied by women everywhere, for her boldness and stunning beauty. The shows were sold out months in advance. The richest men in Europe would come, buying in over and over, unable to stay away. Unable to resist seeing her again and again. Men of every station would empty their accounts, pay anything they had, to see her dance. To watch her strip. To see the sensational Tara King.

The vast audience, in row upon row of seats, reached outward beyond the footlights; reaching forever, until lost from sight. High and past the floor, rose tier after tier of balconies, mezzanines, and loges, studded with spotlights. Towering arches and columns circumscribed the space, decked with hundred-foot banners of scarlet. On each of two immense canvases, flanking the stage, was a black-on-gold silhouette of herself, nude. Lining the walls were rakish paintings, and hanging tapestries. A spectacular Baccarat chandelier, encrusted with diamonds, was suspended in space above – turning majestically, in dazzling brilliance. The stage was parquet, of the rarest oak... with perhaps an Edwardian emphasis. It was the most magnificent venue ever constructed. Built solely for, and because of, the woman standing upon its stage. Presented to her, that she might present herself.

Every seat was filled, as always; with thousands turned away. All eyes were fixed upon her. The melody circled for a moment, like the hint of an ominous whirlpool. Then the bass line struck a major seventh, and her vision rose to the immense chandelier. Almost as if the music had placed its fingers on either side of her face, and tipped it upward, to cause her to gaze upon... and into... the glittering, rotating galaxy there. The prismatic sparkles, off the diamonds and crystals, swirled over her face... and into her eyes. To ready her; to prepare her. Then the fingers released, and her gaze lowered again – with the lights now whirling inside her own eyes. Within her mind. Like a host of sprites possessing her.

She made a regal, seductive walk to one end of the parquet stage; then crossed to the other, in the traveling spotlight. With a subtle, expert catch in her gait, to cause her bare breasts to bounce with stunning effect at every step. Back at centre stage, she stopped, and stood. Her arms straight to her sides. She could feel the thousands of hearts pounding harder, and faster, than the minute before her walk.

For a moment, she remembered a past life in a city someplace, where men might discreetly look at a leg, or a snug bodice; then turn away at a glance from her. But now they stared openly; brazenly; drinking in her unclothed splendour, and craving more. Without the slightest, silly qualms about civility or discretion. She was here, _p_ _our leur plaisir. Pour le plaisir du monde._

She flexed her hands, dangling between the skirt's belt and hemline; to summon their eyes from her bosom, and towards what was yet concealed. And the hearts pounded even harder, in anticipation of what those hands were going to do, or undo, next. Then she floated them towards the slim buckle at her skirt's waistline. All the while smiling at the handsome aristocrat watching fascinated from the first row. All his power, all his wealth, and she had him in the palm of her hand.

Steed stood near the first row of windows, with the aristocrat's photo in hand. He hesitantly touched it, with his fingertips, as Tara had at the briefing. Trying to sense what she was thinking at that moment. An ironic riposte came to him, from a performance they took in last season, in the West End. _"Why Richard, it profits a man nothing to give his soul for the whole world... but for Wales?"_

"For Wales..." he muttered ruefully, as he lowered the photo and looked outside again, for the Cardiff emissary. (Any moment, of course!) Yet he was beginning to suspect _this_ Richard wasn't giving his soul for Wales, or even for the whole world – but for something more...

The music swelled the more, from the unseen orchestra. Reeds; brass; percussion. An awesome, throbbing percussion. Captivating Tara as surely as she captivated her audience. Bowers of orchids, her world-famous trademark, framed the proscenium arch. A king's ransom in jewels dangled from her wrists, her neck, and gleamed from her fingers. Gifts from moguls and money barons, who had fatally watched her even once, and couldn't help giving her anything she wanted.

She cast her eyes over the transfixed multitude. _Drive them mad,_ echoed in her consciousness, from a moment past. It was why she was born. The purpose of her life. To use her beauty... to drive them mad.

Now Tara edged the leather back through the buckle, just an inch. Then another inch. The leather looped outward, and she fingered the loop as she rolled her head back once more. Aware, so keenly aware, of how they yearned that she open the belt... and take off the skirt. She could sense, and she almost laughed, that some of the men were fighting to keep control of their senses. But there was no chance. _"It's hopeless,"_ she said to them, in her mind. _"Surrender now... it's easier for you. I promise I will stand with you at your judgment, and testify to your depravity, and laugh as you're damned forever."_ And as she kept dandling the buckle, and swaying her breasts, they succumbed one after the other, until the last was slain. They knew nothing, thought nothing, except about the vision before them. Knowing only that they had to see more, even more, of her. This was Hell – and she was Satan with an hourglass figure.

With a move both casual and sudden, she parted the belt, and released the ends. They dropped, and dangled at the loops on either side; suddenly framing the centre of her sexuality. Then she set her fingers to the single clasp, now exposed at the corner of the fly hem. A single, silver clasp... _as ever and always..._ upon her body. That magnificent body, descended of Roman conqueror and Celtic priestess. Melding beauty and power – Tara and King – on a distant night, atop the northeast cliffs of Albion.

From there and then, the dice were flung from the heights, out across the table of history. Traversing the centuries. Tumbling through a thousand intersections of untold variables, down the corridor of time – unto one penultimate tryst. And at the destined moment, as the world convulsed in war, a man and woman again embraced at midnight upon the very cliffs. Down an ancient path; on a bed of grass. While an armada sailed in darkness, from southward shores, to free a continent. And under the new moon, above the North Sea breakers – as a pale green comet tracked overhead – Tara King crossed the threshold, into existence.

* * *

 **Coming next...**

 **CHAPTER SEVEN: A leather folio last viewed by T.E. Lawrence**


	7. A folio last viewed by TE Lawrence

**CHAPTER 7: A leather folio last viewed by T.E. Lawrence**

She slipped the clasp; yet held it closed. She could sense the thousands of eyes on her. The men desiring her. Watching her hands; begging her to release the folds. And as her hips continued to sway, she slowly began unfurling the skirt. Drawing out the hidden hem from behind, with her thumb and forefinger. When the hem slipped free, she caught the edge in her left hand, and opened the skirt outward. Brandishing it to her side – while holding the other half in place, across her hip, with her right. No longer secured. Just her hand, and her fancy, keeping it up.

They knew she would drop it. But she held for second after second; with her head back; her leg continuing to flex, in rhythm. A delicious thrill of laughter, and power, pulsed through her as she held another moment longer. And another. Then, as they were about to go completely insane, on the brink of a riot, she finally let slip the skirt from her right fingers. Gravity swirled the fabric downward, and around her thigh. Then swinging behind her and off, like a torero's cape. She let it dangle a moment from her left hand, as if ready to toss it forth – and any man in the house would have trampled any rival, to gain its possession. But the ensuing brawl would be a tedious bore. So she simply dropped it. Revealing the scarlet panties, in match to her bra. A scarlet band of modesty and daring at once, around the awesome, womanly curvature of waist, hips, thighs, now revealed. Yet not completely revealed. The scarlet still garbing what the men now had to see next. The prize of prizes. Herself still smiling at her one special, imaginary admirer... or perhaps not so imaginary.

Then she turned away from them all, to face upstage. Her back to the house.

She lowered her chin, and looked over her left shoulder, at her captive audience. With sultry eyes, and the most bewitching of smiles. She had them. _Yes..._ they would sell their souls, to see her body – and she would toss those souls into the depths, and laugh as they plunged into Hell. And with the fell bargain struck, she started pushing the silken glove down. Down in back... inch by inch. Her eyes went from sultry to smouldering, as downward she slid the silk. And downward. Then, on the cusp of revelation, her hands hesitated. Halting at the very verge.

 _Something was wrong here._

She lifted her hands from their task, and blinked. Twice. From her own depths, her true identity – the real Tara King – was trying again to surface. After another beat she turned around, facing forward, and cast a confused look beyond the footlights. _Wait a moment. Wait! What is this?_ She touched her forehead with a hand. The other arm rose instinctively over her bare breasts. Past the glare, she was aware of a vast crowd, although she couldn't see any person distinctly _. Wasn't there a manor house? A room, with mirrors? I was looking for someone._

She took an uncertain step backwards. Then she glanced down at herself, half nude... in a spotlight, upon a grand stage, before thousands of men. To her left, just outside the spot, she saw her discarded blouse, and bra, and skirt (the brooch still missing). She heard the throb of the music... the erotic rhythm... and she knew what it meant. _This can't be._ _No!_ She whipped a hand through the air. Trying to awaken. _It's an illusion. This isn't real.  
_

She had a career somewhere. A profession; a life. She thought harder – and details began coming back. A brother in Canada. Finishing school. Primrose... something. Years of study, training, _"for justice and the Crown."_ But the music was swirling over her. Like a tidal surge, drawing her back in. She could feel herself wanting to respond. Wanting to dance. Her hands drew away from her chest, and glided downward – and touched her panties. The fingertips brushing the hem, so deliciously. Feeling an incredible desire to take them off; to reveal her most intimate, erotic beauty for their cheers, and lust, and worship.

Her hips started to sway. The music was so seductive; so compelling. It was like nothing else was possible. She had to take them off. To slide them down, over her smooth, shapely curves... all the way down. She positioned her hands at the band of the panties. Her thumbs just starting to slip, again, under the silken hem. But with a determined effort, she clenched her fists. _No! It's a lie!_ And gave her head a quick, hard shake; trying to break free.

The truth was just beyond her grasp, yet drawing nearer. More recent things began to surface. Familiar faces... voices. A flat in Chelsea. A faithful older friend. _The case of the chase._ She pressed her fingertips to her brow, and concentrated.

The effort was working. The orchestra faded in mid-stride; the theatre hushed. The whole scene began to disperse at its periphery, like a mirage.

It was just a matter of seconds, now; just seconds away. Who she was. What was happening. She tightened a fist again, and tamped her forehead – and whispered intensely, to herself, "I'm not a stripper. I'm _not_ a stripper." And suddenly it was there. _Yes!_ _I'm Tara! Tara King, MI-5. London District. On assignment with... John Steed. That's it! I'm in a room, in a house. And I came to find... I'm here to find Lord... to find Lord..._

In the stillness, from the wings to her left, she heard a _click-a-tick... click-a-tick..._

And at that moment, an object arched from somewhere out front, through the darkness, into the light. It landed on the stage, a few metres before her, and slid across the waxed surface to her feet. She looked down at the apport. At the lush, exotic bouquet of _orchidalia,_ loosely bound... with a scarlet ribbon _._ And at that instant the elusive memory, of where she had seen them before, clicked into focus.

It was during her research years ago, at the British Museum, in the first bloom of her own enthusiasm for rare flora. She had bribed a smitten guard with her most passionate kiss, to gain an hour's access to the forbidden archive of the Royal Society.

Behind those closed doors, in a leather folio last signed out by T.E. Lawrence, she had seen hand-tinted plates of this species. This. Extinct. Species. The faded commentary, translated from Indo-Persian, related the legend of these flowers; cultivated for centuries at great cost and in greater secrecy. It was said their beauty, and fragrance, could seduce any woman on Earth. Tara had felt a trill of danger, as she touched the gravure with her fingertips. _What would it be like? To be given them by a mysterious stranger. To succumb to them, and to him._ But it was only a legend. And the species itself had disappeared, amidst intrigue and conspiracy, before the turn of the century. And yet now, here at her feet...

A keylight illuminated the flowers in a pool of radiance. Those antique images of halide and dye... now, impossibly, real. The spiraled, multicolour petals. Each supple frond curling, like so many beckoning fingers. _What would it be like...?_ She lowered to one knee, her eyes fixed upon the blooms. The Persian inscription, and the danger it spoke of, hovered in her recollection. But it was difficult to recall the details, as the petals shimmered. Traced by streaks of pigment like shooting stars. Pollen glistened on the distended stamens, like gold dust.

 _Don't...!_ warned a small, desperate voice in her mind. _You know the truth. You're free now! Get away...!_ But flecks of nectar caught the light, and seemed to wink at her, with invidious temptation.

She leaned nearer – and from the scent sacs, ruptured by the impact, tendrils of vapour rose up and caressed her face. Like fingers tracing over the sensitive skin, and drawing her down, and closer... and insinuating into her nostrils. _Here is what you want, Tara... here at last._ But she started to sense the danger. The need to pull back; to get away _now_. She braced herself, to rise and flee. Then the voice whispered urgently, _Wait! Just a few more seconds, Tara. It's wonderful... just wait... wait..._ Tara, momentarily confused, hesitated for just another second... and the vapours hit her brain.

The gate was breached. In their first instant of entry, they triggered her breathing reflex, so she drew in even more. Collapsing the walls; flooding into her mind. The vapours sped through her, and spread through her. Slaying all thought; quelling all fears. She gasped, as the wondrous sensations overwhelmed her mind and body. Inhaling again, hungorily, to get more and more of the pleasure. Caring about, thinking about, nothing else. Then the vapours began to gyre within. Stimulating her, and soothing her. Like a tigress having its belly rubbed; and helplessly, happily purring.

Her muscles relaxed; her eyes glazed. Her lips parted. _No... there was no danger_. Of course not. Just these gorgeous flowers. A present, from a man. She liked presents from men. Priceless _chocalats_ and champagne, laced with Asian pheromones, to beguile and arouse her. Rare diamond/ruby amalgams from the maw of Vesuvius. Bantu ivories from the Horn of Africa, banned by international law. Scarlet lingerie, woven of 5000-thread Bengali silk, at a quarter million Pounds per skein. Smooth beyond imagining. Softer than moonlight; more iridescent than the galaxy. Every scallop and cleft exalting every curve. Causing any woman who donned them to think of nothing but sex, and pleasure. Pleasure, and sex. And now this... this impossible, ultimate oblation.

 _Yes. Yes, she wanted it_. She wanted it, more than... more than...

"More than an hour!" Steed exclaimed. He leaned on the Chief Constable's desk, knuckles down, to press the point. He was nearing the end of his tether. Mother wasn't available, being en route (again) to another blimp, or submarine, or whatnot. And since checking in at the petrol stop, Tara hadn't answered the phone in her Lotus – though he had called back within minutes!

"Oh, not quite, Major," his host demurred. He pivoted his high-backed chair towards the wall clock. "I believe it was almost the quarter when you arrived."

"And this second when I departed," came the reply, with a decisive stab of his finger. He cocked his brolly under his arm, tip leading, in Steed action mode. "Give me two officers immediately, with field experience. And send good Mr. Stanhope along whenever he finally –" He halted, and both men turned, at the sound of a motor car skidding to a stop outside.

* * *

 **Coming next...**

 **CHAPTER EIGHT: — the Dark Night that was her soul  
**


	8. The Dark Night that was her soul

**CHAPTER 8: — the Dark Night that was her soul**

Her hands, almost with a life of their own, reached down. They lifted the bouquet from the stage, and up into her arms. Then to her bare bosom, her bare neck, her face. She plunged into its beauty, and fragrance. Its lethal beauty, and fatal fragrance. Stimming her wildly, until she started crushing the flowers, to get at their precious juices. Gripping one after another, of the priceless blooms in her fists. Hand over hand. Crushing them to pulp; raping, and destroying them; to wring every trace of their essence. Then crushing the pulp itself, with frenzied strength, to torture out the final microdrops. And inhaling convulsively, deeper and deeper... until the music resumed.

She was still on one knee, on the stage; head bowed. Her shoulders rising and falling. Cradling the shards of the flowers in her hands, like a pagan sacrifice consummated. Dead... at her hands... as the awful guilt, and ultimate power, aroused her heart and body to wild, untold heights. As the music rose, so did her eyes; and she looked about. Yes... _she was bac_ k. The theatre solid again, and teeming anew. The orchestra, the throng, the whole world, waiting for her yet. Waiting to acclaim her, again and forever.

 _"Tara..."_ came the whisper of dark-tressed Erato, now, from somewhere above. _"Up here, Tara... look up here."_ She rose to her feet, and raised her eyes towards the voice; towards the vault of lights overhead. Hundreds of orchids smiled down at her, and released their balm upon her. Tara watched as the silvery mist descended, lit by the criss-crossing beams. Bending back, and arching her torso upward, to receive it. She shivered as the mist touched her face, her neck, and arms, and bare bosom. She breathed it in, like the sweetest aphrodisiac... and knew she had to strip. It was her purpose in living; her reason for being. To give herself, her beauty, to the world.

She let fall the shreds of flora, and ribbon of scarlet, to the parquet. Her mind completely unhinged. There were no alarms or warnings to be heard. _Keep going,_ she could sense them urging, in the vast theatre. _More... show more!_ It was what they wanted. All they wanted. Even it meant their own destruction. What they desired, more than the whole world.

 _More than... the whole world._

That idea, so thrilling a minute before, suddenly shifted in her mind – swinging around, like an untethered boom – and began to prey on her. Flooding her with woe. Like a sea change; a vast overshadowing; the revaluation of all values. It was so clear now. _They cared nothing about her._ Nothing about her dreams, or desires. Her loves; her heart. They only wanted her body.

The realization harrowed her soul. Pitilessly sundering the final strands of innocence. _All she had loved. Everything, everyone, she had trusted. All she had devoted her life to. Was it worthless? Wasted?_ Her spirit wept. And the last trace of innocence died in her.

 _No. She knew the truth now._ She was nothing else – to anyone. Men were corrupt; the world was corrupt. Rotten; lying; corrupt. They pretended to care, about honour, about tenderness; about her. It was all an act. She had been a fool for ever thinking otherwise.

And the money... _God, the money._ Given to her; lavished on her. She was choked with money. Glutted with money. Immense, immeasurable sums, and it kept pouring in. It was their blunt instrument. She couldn't name a figure they wouldn't meet, in their crazed desire to see her strip. _She being difficult? Doesn't want to? Just give her more, until she does._ She was starting to go mad herself, making wild, gibbering, sky-high demands – and still they paid.

Her eyes were haunted; they didn't care about her eyes. Her soul was anguished; they didn't care if she even had a soul. Her psyche was cracking apart; she was barely hanging on. They didn't care if she collapsed into babbling lunacy, as long as she kept going.

The irony overwhelmed her. The most desired woman in the world, and they plied her with riches, and glamour, and untold luxuries – when, for just one kind word, she would give her all. _And yet, being a woman... so supremely a woman... she knew there was one temptation she could not resist, should they ever set it forth._

So the music played on; pulsing, and hypnotic. Instilling again the desire in her, more compelling than ever, to take off the panties. _Take them off, Tara. You want to... you have to...!_ Her hands sought again, for the hem behind her. But she stopped, with a final vestige of resistance. A final thread was holding her back. Perhaps a last angel, after legions had fled, a last guardian angel was staying with her. Embracing her. Trying yet to save her.

Then she felt a jolt.

It was like an undercarriage hooking a rail car. Involuntarily, her back started to arch. Starting to bend, like an electric current was dialing higher and higher. Her body quivered. _It was welling up at last._ Their last, ultimate enticement. Breaking through her defenses. Promising itself to her, if she would keep going. _So close, so close._ She yearned for it; burned for it; even as the angel held her tighter, and begged her to fight. _Push them down,_ the dark Muse chanted into her other ear. _You've got to have it._ She hung on a final second; then could no longer. The angel buried her face in her hands, and fled – as triumphant laughter broke from above. Supernal fingers tipped her face upward. Tara's eyes lifted high, and widened. Even in the white spotlight, her pupils dilated. It was like throwing open the gates of a besieged city. The sparkling beams poured through the portals, into her mind. To capture her finally. Capture the mind, and the mind will hand over the body. Will hand over... that body.

Stanhope handed over the Crown warrant to the Chief Constable's adjutant; and took up the jurisdictional claim from Cardiff. "Well, at least it isn't in Welsh," he quipped, as he adjusted his eyeglasses. Steed, like his regal cousin on his maternal side, was not amused. In truth, he did not want to lose their quarry to a legal oversight. But minute by minute, the scale in his own mind was tipping towards not wanting to lose Tara... to lose her, one way or the other.

He paced to the window, and looked out on the well-kept streets, and city folk about their business. Then he glanced down at his Bentley, in the drive. For a moment he flashed back to an earlier scene, where he had also lost a partner... more than a partner... as she rode away with another. In fact, in the past year, he had sometimes pondered whether – borne along by Queen and country, and his bespoke bachelor life – he had missed out on things. Important things. _Holding back, instead of reaching out._ He had jested to friends that he didn't need a knighthood, because he already "had the whole world." But he'd begun to wonder... maybe there was something more.

For now, he tried to picture Tara waiting in her Lotus near the manor, as Mother had depicted. Listening to music; her mind in another world; "...probably quite bored." Yet something about her and Lucan... Lucan and her... kept prodding him.

 _"We've gone from being the hunters, to the hunted. Had you noticed...?"_

* * *

 **Coming next...**

 **CHAPTER NINE: She stood half in midnight; half in day.**


	9. She stood half in midnight half in day

**CHAPTER 9:** **She stood half in midnight; half in day  
**

Her hands were tensed in the scarlet hem; her back to the multitude. The psychic pressure growing by the second, with every percussive beat. The orgasm was straining within her, like a wild beast on a chain stretched to breaking.

She couldn't stop her arms. Down she started bending them. Down, down. And over the curvature she pushed the panties... and down the dark, wondrous rift... further, and further. Her eyes sphered wider, in the hypnotic white light aloft, as the power and temptation overwhelmed her. She had to have the orgasm. It was hers if... _hers if..._

Her arms trembled. Her eyes began to widen even more, and lose focus. So she could no longer resist any suggestion; any command. _Push the panties down... Push them down...!_ Her head dropped back. And in a final flex, she pushed them to the bottom. The band of silk caressed her a final second, like sea foam slipping from the sand. Then it nestled under the fleshy cheeks, in a lascivious smile. Her hands released, and stretched downward; framing the awesome sight like the downswept wings of a phoenix. Her head dropped to her breast for a second, as she presented herself... utterly... in all her sumptuous, curving, carnal splendor. So angelic... and so wicked. _"Wicked..."_ whispered Erato from above, her heart bursting in evil accord. Tara's head rolled back, and around; a cry escaping her, of ferocity, and despair, and unconstrained lust. And the Muse, in the closest she would ever come to an act of mercy, finally touched her fingertip to Tara's.

Her eyes suddenly locked opened. Her breath staggered in gasps, as the orgasm began to hit. Rising up, and brimming. Up from the depths. From the depths of the universe; the depths of Hell. So naked, so beautiful; and wicked... so beautiful, and so wicked... wicked... _wicked... wicked..._

The orgasm broke through, and took her, there on the stage. Roaring up in her, through her, like a fire blast. Ravishing her. Writhing, and thrusting – helplessly, shamelessly, in the throes of coming, and coming, and coming – in view of thousands. A woman.

The banks of lights careened out of focus, and whirled. Waves of pleasure surging and breaking, in time to the pulsing music, in the white spotlight. Laughter rang from on high, as the Muse poured her power into her mortal sister. It was primal pleasure, rising more, and more, like a siren wailing out of control. Helpless was Tara. Unable to think, in the paroxysms of physical passion. The orgasm corkscrewed higher, running riot, through her trunk, to her fingertips. Cyclonic; volcanic. The music a thousand fingers over her body, stroking, and tingling, and arousing; each with the sole purpose of driving her insane. Sending her higher and higher, out of her mind. Stimulating unto, and into, her most sensitive, erotic depths. Rending her senses. Thrusting and thrilling her, over and over, and over.

Then the orgasm started to multiply, compulsively, repeatedly, like endless reflections in angled mirrors. The pleasure was amok; almost unbearable. Erato, nearly crazed herself, poured every last ounce of her power downward... and the orgasms, impossibly, _began to overlap_. New surges overlaying the ones before; not succeeding them but _atop_ them. Three, four, fivesixseven; piling, mounting, like a monstrous wave rising from a seaquake. Hardly a woman on Earth had the body, the sexuality, to channel such a torrent. To ride it. To live it. Like Eve herself, betraying her mate and her Creator God, for the sake, and slake, of her bodily passion. The saga disguised by claptrap of snakes and apples, written by fearful men who knew nothing. It was orgasmic fulfillment that felled the masculine, orderly scheme of things; nothing more, nothing less.

In kind, the risk no longer mattered to Tara. The cost to herself, or to untold thousands, didn't matter. She had to have more. More of the mind-blowing ecstasy. Pedal floored; the needle buried. Going faster, and faster. Unable to let up; unable to stop. Everything blown out of focus. The lights spinning wildly; the music a frenzy. The thrill roaring and building _and roaring_ through her again, and again. Until finally, with a shattering scream from her throat, from her soul, as every key of the organ was pressed in concord – arching her entire body into a convex, living sculpture of sheer erotic force – she blasted through the flaming wall, in a final orgasmic explosion. And was spent.

Her eyes shut. Her head rolled. Gasps came from her open mouth, when any sound came at all. A knee quivered, but held. Her muscles and nerves, wrenched to her womanly limit and beyond, sought to recover. Only her supreme muscle tone kept her upright, in the cool, bright spotlight. The corkscrew, its torsion released, spiraled backward and downward, like a waterspout re-descending into the ocean of Tara's psyche. Her arms, supine at her side, were trembling again.

Her back was still to the multitude, who sat in awestruck silence for the first time since her entrance; having been granted the boon of seeing the woman _ne plus ultra_ be taken by her own womanly self.

Her body recapitulated, in reverse, the rocketing climb. Her fingers flexed open, closed, open... as if grasping for the tatters of a lost innocence. Defiled, and fulfilled. The goddess subjugated by her own power. Wholly divine, and wholly human. _For these men and for their damnation, she had come up from Hell..._

Her head swooned to her chest, like a fallen swan. Her _cri d'morte_ echoed through the catwalks and fly spaces, back from the very gates of the Empyrean, and died away. The whole world, from crazy tilt, settled back to keel.

Crashing down from the climax, a sort of fever was broken. Shadows of herself intertwined and pirouetted, from the rotating chandelier, upon the scrim behind; in a silent, cyclic tribute to the _femme avant toutes les femmes_ before them. Droplets of sweat kissed her lips – or were they tears? Her breathing steadied; likewise her pounding heart. Slowly, she raised her head, and drew erect. Eyes wide; her face expressionless. Looking back, into nothing. The chandelier slowed, stopped, and dimmed to darkness. Its job, at last, complete. Leaving only the immense, traveling spot, focused upon Tara King at centre stage.

Her back was flood-lit; displaying the smooth, fit shoulders of her youth and field training; the drop to her waist; the flaring out, so resplendent, of her now naked hips; and from there, her long, supple legs. And in stark contrast, like a moon in eclipse, the front of her was in deepest shadow. Her profile etched the blackest, most voluptuous silhouette, against the ambient light in the wings. From the crown of her head, the edgeline descended... brow, eyes, nose, parted lips still a-tremble, her neck... then out and over the superb thrust of her nude breasts. Then curving in, and down the hourglass – the line's purity tripped for just a moment by the front of her panties, still in place – and down her legs, to her feet. She stood half in midnight; half in day. An eternal duality, of breathtaking beauty. Angel of Light; Goddess of Night. As if wavering at the very threshold of the Dark Side, the very brink... but not entered in. Not quite.

Steed stood impatiently at the threshold, as Stanhope entered the final piece of information, into the final blank of the document. "Done and done," the barrister declared – and Steed tamped down his bowler, with an audible _thunk_.

"Hold on, Major," the Chief Constable interjected, as he picked up a dispatch phone. "I'll have to summon a vehicle."

"No time," Steed snapped. "It's a long drive as is." He pointed to Stanhope. "You, ride next to me." Then to the officers by the Telex machine, "You, and you, in the rear seats. And mind you, no tippling on duty." And they were off.

* * *

 **Coming next (and final) ...**

 **CHAPTER TEN: More than the whole world**

 **and**

 **EPILOGUE**


	10. More than the whole world and Epilogue

**CHAPTER 10: More than the whole world**

Tara's equilibrium, her senses, seeped back. Her eyes were closed; she rolled her head a fraction, and a moan escaped her heart. A delicious desire for rest, and respite, engulfed her. A desire to stop thinking; to forget oaths and obligations; career and Crown. Just to melt into a forbidden, erotic embrace, forever. To be held; and treasured. And loved. Deeply, physically, spiritually, loved. _Not holding back, but reaching out._ From somewhere an image of a plush canopy bed, its sheets turned down, flickered through her memory. Waiting for her. Beckoning her. What she wanted, truly wanted, more than... more than...

But it was time. Time for the final reveal. All but her most intimate corner had been unveiled. She was ready. The bridges were burned. There was no turning back. "My pussy..." she whispered, as she had with a most special flower, at a bygone moment. Vouchsafed with just the slightest quaver; as a maiden might offer herself to a conqueror, to save her nation from destruction. The sublime focus of her womanhood; source and summit of her sexuality.

She lowered her gaze. The lighting crept up by degrees. And at her feet, just upstage, was revealed a bra; a plum silk blouse, _sans_ brooch; a wraparound skirt. Then a ruin of flowers... and atop them all, a scarlet ribbon. Tara looked upon the ribbon – and she understood. From her lips came the orison, "Behold thy handmaid. Be it unto me, according to thy word."

Fingers seemed to touch her temples, and her head craned upward, towards the Kleig-lit heavens. The part of heaven with the precious privilege of overshadowing Tara King. It was time; this was hers. Framed by her beauty. Gifted to her, from the inception of the world. Fulfillment of all desires. Alpha and Omega. For her, now, to give.

In prelude, she began to move her hips sensuously, hypnotically, back and forth. Back, and forth. Then she slowly turned – the turn the whole world had been waiting for. And with that lustful, abandoned countenance that only coming can bring to a woman, she faced the transfixed multitude. Her eyes closed; her head rolled a final time, in a full circle; her torso swayed. Her breasts, with a sheen of sweat from the orgasm, swung gently. Every eye staring at them. Every heart lusting for her. Throughout the theatre was heard the silence and symphony of life eternal.

She stopped, with her hips canted to the side. No more hesitation; no more resistance. She was exactly where she was meant to be, doing what she was meant to do. The Fresnel spot, churning from the furnace of its flaming hot filaments, passionately caressed her... and she knew she had to, and yearned to, give those last concealed inches to its touch. And with the most tantalizing smile, she reached her fingers to the front of the panties... and slipped them in. Then she began, ever so slowly, moving her hips again. Down she slid her fingers, beneath the scarlet silk. The fingertips just within the hem. Sliding down, and up. Then down an inch further, and up, beneath the silk. And down, even closer, ever closer, to the focal point of the madding crowd. In her ears she heard the thunder of ten thousand pounding hearts. At a crescendo in the music, she did a pirouette, a 180... to stretch their frenzy one final degree. She touched the bare cheeks with her fingertips, even as she had once touched a photograph, so long ago. Then on the counterbeat, she turned again to the front... and began edging the panties down. With the most exquisite slowness, she slid the silk further downward... and lower... showing more, and more, and more... sliding down, and towards... down, and towards... and at that moment, the bracket clock struck. _One_Two_Three._ Tara's hands stopped. Her eyes blinked. The chimes re-echoed in the far reaches of the theatre, _one... two... three... two... three... two... three..._

The music faltered, and fled; the spotlights winking out. The audience fading away. The dream breaking apart, this time, forever. With the final note, she was back in the boudoir, before the 3-way mirrors.

It was over – but not over. The dance was finished... but the dancer was not. Before she could look away, the mirrors caught her. They pressed, with the fever of the vanished crowd, _Don't stop... You can't stop...!_ Loosed from the fantasy, Tara balked... but now the glistening increased. Brighter, and stronger, from the endless web of mirrors within mirrors. Each multiplying the effect, from a thousand angles. _You have to keep going... you have to go all the way._ And with just the faintest tremor, her hands moved towards the panties. Towards her centre. Her ultimate, womanly centre.

Her perfectly manicured nails touched the lacy edge. _Keep going... keep going!_ Her will began to buckle. Her body started bending, a final time – arching back to present her most intimate self. On another level of awareness, she begged for a shred, a thread, of dignity. But her unclothed beauty, displayed, foreclosed any plea. Her nearly nude body was too arousing; too overwhelming. She couldn't be allowed to stop. "I have to go all the way," she whispered again. A hint of surrender... surrender at last... was in the whisper. _The wanton embrace... her back to the Earth..._

Her thumbs slipped into the hem – her head tilted to the side, her eyes bedazzled by the mirrors – and down she pushed the panties. Centimeter by precious centimeter. Ever more tender, more intimate. Her hips lolled forward. The silk sliding off the flesh beneath, kissing it _en passant,_ and revealing it. Not as a Judas betrayal, but as a gentle farewell to innocence.

Then, finally, the dark tuft. The first brunette wisp, just visible above her hidden doorway. In the other hidden doorway, dials were thumbed to the absolute maximum. Gunning the hypnosis off the scale. Tara's eyes orbed; her lips parted. _Keep going,_ came the reprise. Her mind was almost gone. Hanging by a thread, as tenuously as the panties. There was just her hands, and the panties. Until she could fight it no longer. The bed awaited. And the thread snapped.

Downward she pushed the panties. Down... and down... and off of her. The scarlet silk surrendered, and dropped to the floor. The last leaf, fallen. And Miss Tara King's impossibly lush, gorgeous, erotic beauty was finally yielded in its full glory...

...and a figure – as enthralled in his own way – emerged from the shadows. Escape from prison was his; _the chance was now._ But he walked past the door. Knowing only what he saw before him. What he desired more than the whole world.

As Tara King stood at the mirrors, _ad imago Deae_ , a hand placed into her brunette tresses a single, perfect orchid. And she knew as well. She knew, at last, the Dark Side. And John the Revelator, from his own final prison on Patmos, did write, _"Lo, I beheld the City of God Most High, descending from the heavens / Adorned like a bride for her bridegroom, entering unto the bedchamber."_

* * *

 **EPILOGUE**

When Steed and the police finally arrived, a slightly disoriented Tara let them in. A search of the premises uncovered no sign of the missing peer, and the manhunt was turned over to Interpol. Four weeks later, Tara was shocked to find out she was pregnant – although she'd had no lover in nearly a year. Dismayed and mystified, she confided the news to Steed, and asked for his help in quietly arranging an abortion. He instead asked for her hand in marriage.

After plumbing her gallant friend's true feelings, she took a weekend alone at the North Sea coast, to search her own heart. It was the site of an early case with Steed; a place that had stayed with her, for some reason. At midnight there, past the now abandoned Carmadoc light, she walked the windswept cliffs under the August moon. Against the chill she held a woolen breaker, with a silver clasp. Waves thundered in the distance, as plumes of mist, off the sea, haunted the night.

To her surprise she saw, in the pale light, the traces of a path. It looked years, even centuries, old – yet she could swear it was never there before. She followed along it, passing wraiths... of fog?... to her left and right, until she came to a silent, grassy circle at the end.

She stood at the edge, and gazed upon it. _Thinking, feeling, just being alive... in this corner of the Earth, of the universe._ A patch of mist drifted aside – and ahead she saw something glimmer in the grass, at the centre of the space. She went forward, and picked it up; and turned it in her fingers. Counting its rim stones; touching its plaits. Then she held it to her breast with both hands. And pinned it on.

Her arms lowered, and she stood facing eastward... as if looking upon a different world, beyond. The fresh breeze riffled her hair in the moonlight, and whispered, _"Welcome home, Tara... at long last."_ Her eyes then lifted – not by unseen hands this time, but her own volition – and overhead, speeding yet motionless, shone an emerald green comet.

After a further review, Interpol concluded the fugitive had committed suicide in the Thames the previous year – probably within days of his crime – with the body borne out to sea. Any subsequent reports were deemed false, and the case closed.

John King Steed was born Easter morning at St. Bart's Hospital – a handsome, healthy son, with an aristocratic mien – and the couple lived in happiness and love ever after. The End.


End file.
